


Fuck Club

by annabelle_leigh, TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Consensual Violence, Consent, Fight Club - Freeform, M/M, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, eventually, fuck club, injuries, opponents to lovers, strangers to opponents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabelle_leigh/pseuds/annabelle_leigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: Rhett joins an underground club with strict rules and fucks other men who are fed up with their mundane lives. He's heard about Link from the other guys, knows he's the founder of Fuck Club, and he knows that he rarely fucks these days, that he mostly just referees. There's an unspoken attraction between the two men from the day Rhett first set foot in the club, but it's not until it's clear Rhett's a worthy opponent do things begin to change.





	Fuck Club

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annabelle_leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabelle_leigh/gifts), [mythicaliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythicaliz/gifts), [thisiscyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiscyrene/gifts).



> So many props go to annabelle_leigh (of ao3)/usefulmammal (of tumblr) for coming up with the idea, fleshing it out with me, being cool with me writing it, and then keeping me motivated. She truly is the most useful of mammals, and without her, there would be no Fuck Club. Please go tell her how wonderful she is. 
> 
> Also, thanks go to mythicaliz, who I've been tormenting with spoilers and who is threatening to Misery me. Bonus shout out to thisiscyrene (ao3)/killthenaughtyboy (tumblr), who loves Fight Club and who hopefully will enjoy Fuck Club. Thanks for tolerating my bs, friends. I love you all.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Fuck Club.”

The basement room is windowless and damp, the only light coming from a couple of hanging, exposed light bulbs that cast eerie shadows against the walls and floor and catch in the silver streaks of the man’s hair who’s talking. There’s a crowd of men gathered, standing silent, listening to him.

“The first rule of fuck club is: you do not talk about fuck club. The second rule of fuck club is: you _do not_ talk about fuck club!”

It’s clear that rule number two exists because someone broke rule number one at some point, judging by the look on the man’s stern face as he stares out at the gathering men. He’s dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, which are staying on while the men around him are slowly beginning to undress, shoes kicked off here, a belt pulled free of its loops there, wedding rings stashed in pockets. 

With arms folded over his chest, the man carries on addressing the crowd.

“Third rule of fuck club: if someone yells ‘stop!’, goes limp, or taps out, the fuck is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fuck.”

Somewhere, a soft, disappointed ‘aww!’ rises from the mostly-silent mass of men.

“Fifth rule: one fuck at a time, fellas.”

Here, a tense chuckle ripples through the crowd. It’s not easy to keep that pace, one at a time. To watch and wait your turn. 

“Sixth rule: the fucks are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons.”

Anyone new who had any question about just what it was that goes on here is getting a sense of it now. It’s a fuck club with the promise of combat, of competition. A no holds barred fight to the top, and to the finish.

“Seventh rule: fucks will go on as long as they have to. Eighth rule: the guy who cums first or kisses first, loses.”

Knowing looks are cast this way and that, peppered with the occasional expression of surprise. The mention of kissing always catches the newcomers off-guard, like it’s something they’d never considered. Like they’re trying to work out how to bend that rule to their advantage somehow.

“And the ninth and final rule: if this is your first time at Fuck Club, you have to fuck.”

The regulars have been eyeing each other, sizing each other up. Most of the men who’ve been here before wear bruises and cuts from previous fucks. Matches where they might have found themselves overpowered, where they’d hit the ground hard as they fell to their knees with a stronger, faster man at their back taking the upper hand, taking control. Or from a man they’d all but gotten pinned down who’d made damn sure it wasn’t an easy victory, who put up a fight through the whole damn fuck, determined to prove that just because he’d been topped that sure as hell didn’t mean he’d lost. 

But it’s newcomers first. 

It’s easy to pick them out from the other men. In a sea of wild-eyed excitement, there’s a sprinkling of unease. A couple of men, here and there, who aren’t battered or bruised, who don’t have that knowing hunger in their eyes.

The first timers always look more nervous than anything. There’s something that brought them all there, this shared need to get out of their heads, to break through the mundanity of their normal, boring, day to day lives and really _feel_ that had drawn them in _._ But what sits on the surface is that anxiety that they’d come to the wrong place, that they’d overestimated what they could take, that this wasn’t something they could handle.

Being sized up by twenty or thirty other men in various stages of undress doesn’t help matters much. 

Tonight there’s just three new men. 

The man who’d just addressed the others, and is now weaving his way through the crowd, has his eye on all of them. They’ve been on his radar since they’d set foot inside. He’s not taking on any of the newcomers, not tonight. Not yet. It wouldn’t be anything like a fair fuck, but he’s always got his hand in pairing up the newcomer’s matches to ensure it’s a sporting challenge. 

The man catches someone’s eye across the room, a dark haired veteran who’s been to a handful of fuck nights and has more wins to his name than losses, and nods to him, selecting him. He nods back and starts to move towards the center of the crowd, pulling his t-shirt off over his head and giving it a toss to the floor as he stretches his upper body, swinging his arms in preparation for the coming match. 

Attention moves to the first contender and then back to their unofficial leader still moving through the crowd, wondering where he’s going to stop. Who he’s going to pick next. 

He comes to a stop behind a bearded man with sandy hair and claps his hand down on his shoulder, half turning the tall man to almost face him. “You’re up, princess. Hope you’re prepared.”

Then he gives the tall man an unceremonious shove towards the center of the room, completely heedless of the expression of uncertainty on his face. He’ll figure out quickly enough if he’s cut out for the life they lead down here one night out of the week. 

The tall man looks back over his shoulder as he makes his way to the center of the ring. It feels like his feet are made of cement, like he’s sinking at the same time as he’s floating a hundred miles above from his body. The excitement, the bundle of nerves he feels is intense, but he’s not about to let it compromise this for him. He’s nervous, but he wants this. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, wouldn’t have come if he didn’t think this was the release from the endless monotony that he needed. And he’s determined to prove himself. 

He’s taller than the guy he’s been chosen to fuck, but he’s not stupid enough to think that means it’ll be easy to top him. The way the shorter man is sizing him up as he approaches sends a thrill through him, this thought of _what if I let him top?_ He knows the rules, knows that’s not an automatic loss, knows that the loser is the one who comes first. Maybe it’d be easier to win the first time if he bottoms. It might be tempting, but with _princess_ ringing in his ears, he knows he can’t give in that easily. 

Of course he had prepared, though. They both had. They _all_ had. It’s an unspoken rule, one of the details that you pass on when you bring someone along for their first time -- always a delicate situation, given the first and second rules. But even with those rules in place, there wouldn’t be anyone gathered around them if not for recruitment. 

There are more unspoken rules. Like first names only and keep talk to a minimum during a fuck, unless that talk is intentional, tactical. Dirty. No masturbating in the crowd, because it’s cheating to go into a fuck having just come. 

“I’m going to enjoy popping your cherry,” the darker haired man says, trash talk meant to intimidate. “Jimmy,” he adds in introduction. 

“Good luck with that, Jimmy,” the taller man says as he peels off his own shirt and lets it fall. “Rhett.”

There’s no signal to begin, it just starts. Jimmy launches himself at Rhett, using the full force of his weight in an effort to knock him to the floor. Unfortunately for Rhett, it’s effective, but the instant they hit the floor the taller man’s managed to get the other into a headlock, whipping his legs around him in an effort to immobilize him. 

Rhett’s work’s cut out of him here. He’s gotta get enough of their pants undone and down that he’s got access, and he’s got to pin the Jimmy into a position where he can take him. It’d be easier under other circumstances, when there wasn’t anything on the line, if they were two lovers grappling in the sheets instead of two strangers about to fuck on a thin mat covering the hard concrete floor. 

Rhett catches an elbow and it winds him, causes him to let up on his hold enough that he briefly loses the upper hand. By this point, Jimmy’s pants are undone and they’re slipping, but now he’s quick to try and turn them over, to get Rhett’s long arms away from him if he’s going to have a prayer of topping him. 

It’s an all out wrestling match at first, desperate and artless, and around them the cheers and shouts of the men gathered to fuck and watch each other fuck. Rhett can feel himself about to be pinned and it’s harder to fight his way back to the top each time Jimmy gets an edge on him. Jimmy’s got experience, practice fucking like fighting, moves and maneuvers that he’s bringing out one after another to bring the freckled giant down. 

Rhett’s about to let it happen, again thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe it’d be _easier_ not to come if he’s not on top, but he catches sight of the man in the crowd who’d tapped him. Sees him watching from behind his glasses, strong arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a smirk, this subtle smug grin like he’s thinking that he’s right. That his jab about hoping Rhett was prepared is coming true. The princess dig surfaces again in Rhett’s mind, and all of it combines as motivation to fight back _hard_. He’s not ready to give up, to just lay back and take it. 

Not when he’s got something to prove. 

He comes at Jimmy with everything he’s got, fueled by the desperation to wrestle the other man to the ground and take him. By the time Rhett manages to get Jimmy pinned face down to the floor, the both of them have taken their fair share of blows, come down hard against the thin vinyl mat, enough that they’ll both have bruises in the morning that slowly shift through yellow to angry purple and red in the days to come. 

Neither of their pants are off, but they’re off _enough_. Jimmy’s face down and trying to change that, trying to raise up on his knees only to find Rhett at his back. To feel Rhett’s cock pressed against his ass. He knows he’s all but lost, but that doesn’t stop him from trying one last time to turn the tables. 

Jimmy brings his head back _hard_ and catches Rhett right in the face, and he’s bleeding instantly. Rhett hisses a swear, but he can’t stop moving or he’ll lose all he’s gained. Right off the bat, he doesn’t know if it’s his nose or his mouth or both. His teeth are alright, but he can taste blood. Maybe his lip’s split. There’s nothing to do for it right now except press on, stop it happening again. 

That’s how he ends up wrestling Jimmy’s upper body to the floor and holding him pinned there with a fist in his hair. Jimmy knows he’s lost, cheek to the mat and ass in the air with the taller man still pressed up against him, so close to being inside him that he can practically feel it already. His body is betraying him, his cock hanging hard and heavy between his legs, apparently caring about losing the upper hand to a newbie far less than the rest of him does. 

The fact that Rhett had also prepared before he’d come out tonight as prescribed, just in case he ended up bottoming, doesn’t quite make the fact that Jimmy was prepared and easy to sink into any less jarring in that first moment. 

When Rhett finally sinks inside him, that hand fisted tight in Jimmy’s dark hair, he’s not rewarded with a sound or sigh at all. Rhett’s not sure what he’d expected, but it makes sense that his opponent is trying to swallow down any and all sounds of enjoyment so he doesn’t let on how much he’s liking this, how he’s getting off on it. Especially when the aim is _not to._

Sounds are a tell. They’re a weakness, a vulnerability. Something Rhett could use to learn what Jimmy likes and give him more of the same, something the rest of the men circling them could pick up on and target him with in future fucks. It’s too much of a risk to let on what you like, to give that much of yourself away, if you want to have any chance of winning. Unless you decide to use sound as a weapon, make a show of how good it feels as a way to underhandedly win.

Rhett's taking care to keep quiet as well. Careful that if he's vocal that it's purposeful, with the intention of arousing the man beneath him beyond what he can take. At fuck club, talking dirty was playing dirty. 

It's hard to be quiet as he takes the man beneath him without warning, but then, everyone had known just where this was going. No warning was the name of the game, everything on edge, every move a targeted strike. Rhett's heart is pounding in his chest with the thrill of it, of how good he feels, hot and wet and _tight_ around his cock. 

But it's more than how it feels. It's the high of being in control, of holding the man's face pinned to the floor by a fist full of hair. It's everyone seeing and knowing just how easily he'd taken him down, how fast he'd been able to dominate him. Rhett's a contender already, someone to watch, someone to beat, and he knows it. 

Jimmy’s breathing hard beneath him, breathing through his teeth as Rhett starts to move. Rhett’s trying so hard to keep all his attention on Jimmy, to read something in those shallow breaths, those tight shoulders that will give him a sense of how close he is, of how to get him off, how to win. It’s not easy to keep that focus with the crowd of men around them loud and cheering, shouting Jimmy’s name, encouraging him to hold off, _you can do it!_ ringing off the walls.

Rhett looks up at the crowd and catches the eye of the man who’d picked him again. The organizer. He knows who he is, he’s heard about him. Everyone has. The man who’d tipped Rhett off about the club and how to join had let slip some details about him. Link Neal, with his dark, graying hair and glasses, his broad shoulders, was unbeatable. He’d started this ring, he’d made up the rules, and no one had ever beaten him. 

Sometimes, _sometimes_ people have topped him, but that doesn’t mean they’d _won._ Top or bottom, Link wins every time, holds out until his opponent has come undone and then takes his pleasure as victory. And he hadn’t bottomed in a long time, not since most of the men have started coming.

And now he’s staring Rhett down now from across the room, arms over his chest as he watches the fuck. Rhett’s eyes drag down the man’s body and back up, and if he’s not mistaken, Link’s not entirely unmoved by what he’s watching, if the front of his jeans are any indication. Link licks his lips, slow and deliberate, and _goddamn_ , that’s almost enough to cause Rhett to come on the spot. To undermine the whole fuck. 

Rhett tears his attention away from him, squeezes his eyes shut tight and thinks of anything else, anything at all to keep himself from coming. But the image of Link’s mouth creeps in from the corners of his brain again, wet and smirking and so inviting and _fuck, he can’t do this._

Jimmy beneath him is starting to lose. Distantly, Rhett’s aware that he’s less and less able to control his noise, his reactions. He’s giving himself away in his breath, in the tremors of his body. Rhett had started fucking him so much harder as he tried to drive the image of Link from his mind, harder, faster, the pace he’s set punishing. Jimmy never stood a goddamn chance. 

The shorter man comes on the floor with a shout, and then another, longer and lower, giving in to his defeat and the orgasm tearing through him. It’s jarring for Rhett, hit so sudden and so forcefully that it damn near takes his breath away too when he feels the man beneath him go rigid beneath and around him. The shouts of the crowd barely register in that moment, whoops and hollers about the newcomer’s win and Jimmy’s defeat lost in his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. He follows Jimmy down in short order, a few last savage thrusts and then he’s coming, victorious. 

“Lick it up!” someone shouts, and Rhett’s too dazed to register it over the rest of the noise, but it seems that Jimmy does. Apparently, another unspoken rule is that the loser cleans up the mess with his mouth, because as soon as Rhett moves away, Jimmy’s still on hands and knees as he moves to lick his spilled cum from the mat. _Holy shit._

The rest of the night is a blur. He doesn’t fuck again that night, just watches from the sidelines as the other two newcomers lose their quote unquote virginity in the ring. Redressed, he hardly looks more put together than he had with his pants around his knees. His khakis are ripped from wrestling on the concrete, and his shirt is bloody from his nose or his mouth, he still doesn’t know which. Once it is, he gives up trying to keep it clean, and uses the sleeve to blot at his face. 

Periodically, when he feels sure he won’t be seen looking, his attention drifts over to Link, but every time he looks it seems like Link’s already watching him. Rhett doesn’t know what it is he’s done to catch the other man’s attention, but it sends a thrill through him. One that settles deep in the pit of his stomach and, if he thought about it more, felt a lot like attraction. Desire.

He wants to watch Link fuck but it doesn’t happen. The man doesn’t so much as make a move towards anyone, doesn’t take his shirt off like he’s queueing up for a match. He’s just standing on the sidelines tonight, and Rhett’s out for the rest of the night, himself, because he’s already come once. It’s an unfair advantage unless he ends up going against someone else who’s already fucked. 

He can’t begin to describe how he feels, after that first night. Elation isn’t a strong enough word. He’s riding high on the endorphins of the fuck, of the win. He’s feeling like he could top anyone in the room, that he could hold out longer, could beat them all. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not, but this high he’s riding is addictive. It’s dangerous. 

He knows already, before he even leaves to head home, that he’s going to need more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for liking, commenting, and subscribing. 
> 
> >:)


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